


Never have I ever

by Sapphy



Series: Unbalanced 'verse [11]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Christmas Eve, Christmas Party, Cooking, Cross-Generation Relationship, Dark Stiles, Domestic Fluff, Dysfunctional Relationships, Families of Choice, Fluff, Food, Gen, M/M, Pack Family, Past Child Abuse, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Psychopaths In Love, Wiligia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-09 17:08:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8900857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sapphy/pseuds/Sapphy
Summary: Christmas eve in the Stilinski household is a little different this year.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: really brief this time - Peter says something really problematic in this, that can definitely be read as an attempt to bully or coerce Stiles into forgiving him. Stiles calls him out on it at once, and isn't affected by it, so no harm done, but I wanted to warn in case. I love Peter, but I am no apologist - dude is a creep.
> 
> Obviously there's also some mention of the shit that happened in the latest chapters of Real Boy, but it's all very mild.
> 
> I am not Polish, so apologies if I've mucked anything up - I haven't had a lot of chances to eat Polish food in my life, but it sounds pretty delicious. 
> 
> On the note of Scott's race - his dad is Mexican in this verse, and is therefore not played by Matthew Le Negro. Feel free to mentally insert your favorite Mexican actor into the role. Melissa is white, but was taught to cook a few Mexican dishes by her mother-in-law.
> 
> I know this fic can read a little bit like the Small World ride, but I don't see a lot of stuff acknowledging what little cultural diversity the show does have, and I wanted to embrace that.
> 
> And finally, thank you, all of you who've stuck with this fic through the literal years of hiatus, and to the people who are just discovering it now for the first time. Your response is the reason I'm still writing this. Happy Holidays.

Stiles studies his reflection in the window. It isn’t dark, but the curtains cast enough shadow on the glass to turn it into a mirror.

He’s alone in his room, and his expression has settled into what he thinks of as his in-between face. Derek has the world’s most impressive resting bitch-face; he has what can only be described as resting blankness.

He tries on happiness, watches his mouth curve and his eyes crinkle, and winces at the obvious fakeness. Scott has assured him he’s getting better, but looking at himself he can only wonder how bad he had been to start with if this is an improvement.

“It’s better when you do it impulsively,” Allison says, appearing on the other side of the glass and pushing the window open from the outside. “Less Halloween mask-y.”

Stiles moves aside and she drops lightly onto the carpet, shaking out her top, sending the handful of brown painted legos she’d been cradling in it tumbling to the floor. “I think that’s all of them, and I’m not going back out to double check; it’s freezing.”

He smiles his thanks, hoping she’s right about it looking less horrible when he means it. “Sorry about that.”

“Oh don’t be silly. There was no way I was going to let you out there when your arm’s only just out of the sling. I just want to be sure you’re certain about this.”

Stiles sighs, and tries not to think too hard about what expression he’s pulling. “Not entirely, but it was time.”

Allison chuckles grimly. “You know my feelings on that one brother, so I won’t bother saying it again. But just so you know? I’m perfectly happy to go and put all the traps back, no matter how cold it is.”

“It’s not like they’d really keep him away if he didn’t know I didn’t want to see him,” Stiles points out. He doesn’t say that even that hadn’t been keeping Peter away. He’d kept quiet, respecting that Stiles didn’t want to talk to him and in exchange for that, Stiles was prepared to tolerate any amount of silent stalking. At this point it would feel weird going through his morning routine without Peter watching him, however angry he is at him. “Besides, it’s time I forgave him. It’s not like he even did anything wrong.”

Allison raises an eyebrow that Stiles knows means ‘apart from being a murderer in his forties dating a teenager’, and he smiles helplessly at her. There’s something about his pack that makes experiencing emotions not only possible, but unavoidable.

“I love you,” he told her.

“And I would kill for you, and if Peter pushes too hard, I promise even Lydia won’t be able to find the body.”

He laughs and kisses her cheek, and they go downstairs hand in hand, and Stiles feels nearly like a real person.

His dad is in the kitchen, peeling potatoes while Chris Argent glares balefully at the hob.

Stiles pushes past him and lights it for him – there’s been a knack to the timing ever since he’d melted a plastic bowl over one of the gas rings when he was a kid. Not for the first time he thinks that maybe they should replace it, but it works well enough that he hasn’t ever brought it up. His dad has enough money worries, and he won’t take the money Stiles offers anymore, not when he finally has an idea where it comes from.

“What can I do?” Allison asks, and gets passed a bowl of mushrooms to chop.

His mum would have been appalled at the idea of visitors being put to work, but Stiles and his dad have learnt to take all the help they can get, especially since they’re not sure how many people to expect.

Allison and her dad have been with them since just after lunch, Scott and Melissa are expected at supper time. Derek’s pack have all promised to drop in, and Isaac, who doesn’t have any family, is going to be arriving any minute. His dad’s invited some people from the station, and some of the neighbors, most of whom will probably be busy with their own families. Jackson had sneered at the invitation, and Lydia had just raised a scathing eyebrow, but neither of them had said they definitely weren’t coming.

Even Derek and Peter have been invited, which had taken a great deal of persuading on Stiles’ part, especially since he’s still not sure he’s really ready to see Peter.

Peter had explained that the girl had been as much of a shock to him as to Stiles, that he’d only know who she was by scent, and then when Stiles had thrown him out, he’d sent Derek to explain it again. It doesn’t matter. He hasn’t done anything wrong, but that doesn’t help Stiles quash the horrible sick feeling of betrayal he gets every time he thinks about it.

Peter has a daughter the same age as Stiles, a daughter he’d abandoned to be raised by psychotic murderers, and Stiles can’t stop remembering her face every time he looks at him.

But he’s spent weeks being angry, and all it’s really achieved is rub in just how much he loves having Peter in his life. He’d needed the space, but it hasn’t ultimately made him feel any better about Malia, or helped him realize he doesn’t need Peter like Allison had hoped. It’s just made him lonely and sexually frustrated, so tonight he’s going to see Peter properly for the first time in weeks, and hope like hell he doesn’t do anything inappropriate in front of the Stiles’ dad.

And of course, he’s also hoping that once his dad has gone to bed, Peter will do all kinds of inappropriate things. The therapy with Ellen has obviously been working, because Stiles feels normal enough to be constantly horny and dreaming about Peter’s mouth. And his hands. And his cock. And his claws. And… yeah. All of him, preferably naked.

Which is something he definitely doesn’t want to be thinking about when his dad and pack-sister and Chris freaking Argent are right there, so he turns all his attention to measuring out the ingredients for the dumpling dough.

He’s just wrapping the dough in Clingfilm ready to be chilled, when there’s a knock on the door.

He wiggles his sticky dough-y fingers at his dad, who sighs and passes the wooden spoon he’s been using to stir the mushrooms to Chris before going to answer it.

Stiles hears Isaac’s voice, and then a low murmur from his dad, too quiet to catch. Probably his dad just checking up on Isaac. As Sherriff it’s his job to worry about everyone in Beacon Hills, and as a dad who knows a little too much for comfort about, what’s really out there he worries about the packs especially, but he’s developed a particular soft-spot for Isaac recently. Stiles thinks maybe his dad feels responsible for not taking Isaac away from Mr Layhe years ago, even though he’d had no way of knowing what was going on. 

Stiles gave up trying to understand that kind of guilt years ago. It’s just one of those normal people things that will never make sense to him, like crying at films and helping out neighbors you don’t like and not calling old Mrs Dawson from down a road a bigoted old hag to her face. (He’s still gonna do that last one someday, but maybe not till he knows she’s going to die soon. He doesn’t want to cause trouble for his dad, even if she had said awful things about Stiles’ mum being an immigrant, and wouldn’t let Melissa McCall treat her that one time because of she thought Melissa was Latina.)

He does feel a little twinge of his own kind of guilt when Isaac came into the kitchen though. It’s been two months, but Isaac still looks drawn and too pale, and his missing finger is a constant reminder that Stiles hadn’t been strong enough or smart enough to protect him.

Allison must see his thoughts in his eyes, though he knows his expression hasn’t changed, because she squeezes his shoulder before she goes to greet Isaac, pulling him into a tight hug. She and Isaac have become good friends since the kidnapping. Isaac told him that he finds her soothing to be around, because she doesn’t fuss like Boyd and Erica, but Stiles can see that it’s more than that. Isaac is at least half in love with her, and while Stiles can’t blame him in the least, he watches them closely to make sure Isaac behaves himself.

“I brought cheese pinwheels,” Isaac says, giving Stiles a small but genuine smile. “I know it’s not much, but my mum used to make them for boxing day every year, and they’re pretty much the only thing I know how to cook.”

“I have no idea what boxing day is,” Stiles’ dad says, taking the plastic tub from Isaac and setting it on top of the fridge, “but thank you. How many does that make, Stiles?”

“Nine, I think,” Stiles says. “And Derek and Peter are bringing something, and Scott and Melissa are making tamales.”

“So we’re one dish short,” Allison says, looking pleased at understanding what they’re talking about. She’d wanted to know all about Wigilia when Stiles had invited her, which was nice. Stiles isn’t very up on the Polish side of his heritage, but it matters to him to preserve what he does know. He doesn’t have much of his mom to hang on to that isn’t scars, but sharing food with the people he loves on Christmas eve is one of the ways he has of preserving the happy memories of her instead of just the pain.

It’s always just been him and his dad and Scott and Melissa and maybe some of the deputies who don’t have much family before. This will be the first year Stiles has had more than one person to invite, and it’s equal parts exciting and scary. There’s been so much change this year, so many disruptions to the familiar routines of his life, and even though a lot of it has been good, it’s still a lot to take in.

“No,” Isaac says immediately. “Boyd’s dad is sending cake.”

“Thank god for that,” Stiles’ dad says. “I think the only thing we have in the house Stiles isn’t already cooking is frozen pizza!”

They’d had fish fingers as one of the dishes, the first year after Stiles’ mom died, back before he’d started learning her recipes. She’d written them down for him, before she died, but it had been a long time before he could bring himself to even try cooking them, and the first time he’d made Pierogi without her he’d ended up in tears because they didn’t taste right and she wasn’t there to show him how to fix them.

That was a long time ago. He’s a pretty good cook now, has practiced enough that the knives don’t make him uncomfortable anymore, and his Polish food tastes nearly as good as hers had.

The kitchen is getting pretty full, so after he’s given Isaac a quick hug hello, Stiles takes him, a bowl of seasoned rice and onion and a whole boiled cabbage out to the dining room table to begin rolling the golabkis.

It takes Isaac a couple of tries to get it right – he overfills the first one and the leaf tears. He looks mortified and Stiles can’t help laughing.

“It doesn’t matter. It’s just cabbage. Scoop the filling back into the bowl and try again.”

His second attempt is better, although this time he uses too little filling, so whoever gets that one will mostly be getting a mouthful of cabbage. After that he gets the hang of it, filling and rolling quickly and neatly. They don’t talk as they work, but the silence is comfortable, in as much as Stiles can ever tell things like that. He feels comfortable, and Isaac doesn’t seem tense at all now he knows he’s doing it right.

There’s filling leftover when they’ve filled the baking dish with neatly rolled parcels, but it’ll freeze. Stiles will add meat to it one night he’s feeling ambitious and him and his dad can have golabkis for dinner. The leftover cabbage will get used up in other dishes – if there’s one thing he’s learnt from cooking his mom’s recipes, it’s that there’s always room for more cabbage in any meal.

Stiles carries the full dish back the kitchen, Isaac following with the leftovers, and Chris makes room for him to put them in the oven. While he’s got the door open he checks on the baking fish to make sure it isn’t burning, and mentally calculates how much longer it will want.

Allison and his dad have made the pierogi so they go on to boil while Chris fries the onions for the noodles. Stiles turns his attention to the dill sauce for the fish, doing his best not to bump into Chris as they share the hob.

They’re actually on time with all the preparations, so at half four Stiles declares them officially on a break. His dad opens a bottle of wine (his mom used to make dark comments about what her babcia would say to see her drinking on Christmas eve, but she’d always have some) and everyone gets given a glass whether they want it or not. Isaac looks rather alarmed to be underage drinking with the town Sheriff, but he relaxes a little when Stiles points out he actually can’t get drunk.

They’re all just heading back into the kitchen for the last rush of cooking when the doorbell rings. The Sheriff starts to get up, but Isaac gives Stiles a significant look that tells him exactly who it is, so he pushes his dad towards the kitchen and goes to answer it himself.

Peter is standing on the doorstep, Derek lurking behind him like he’s not sure he should be there. Stiles does his best to smile and gestures them in, but his mouth has gone dry and he’s not sure he could form actual words if he tried. It’s just… Peter. Peter after so long, because seeing him lurking outside the window in the mornings isn’t the same thing as him being here, real and in the flesh, shrugging out of the coat that probably cost more than all Stiles’ clothes put together.

He still has amazing shoulders. Stiles finds himself staring at them, and it’s only slightly so he doesn’t have to meet his eyes.

He takes their coats almost absently, dumping them on the chair in the hall that serves as a substitute coat rack, and then, with no excuses left not to, he finally meets Peter’s eyes.

They flash electric blue for a second, and then fade back to their usual soft grey as Peter studies him intently.

After a moment Peter holds out round dish, covered in foil, eyes never leaving Stiles face. Stiles hadn’t even noticed Peter was holding it.

Stiles hesitates before taking it. He doesn’t think Peter would poison him, but he isn’t sure he’s certain enough to accept anything Peter gives him right now. If Peter really thinks he’s been rejected, has given up hope of winning Stiles back, the idea of him poisoning Stiles to stop him dating anyone else seems worryingly plausible.

“It’s not gonna kill you,” Peter says, apparently reading his thoughts.

“That’s not as reassuring as you think it is,” Stiles tells him, risking a small smile. “Non-fatal is not the same as non-toxic.”

“I promise they’re not deliberately toxic,” Peter says, giving him a wide genuine smile, and Stiles can’t resist any more.

The dish turns out to contain a large pecan pie. “You made this?!” He can’t imagine Peter cooking somehow, even though he must have learnt sometime.

“No, I hired an elderly lady to make it so I could pass it off as my own,” Peter says, deadpan, and Stiles squints at him.

“I’m honestly not sure if you’re joking,” Stiles admits. “On the one hand, that would be a ridiculous thing to do, but on the other hand, if I’ve learnt anything from being stalked by you for the last few months it’s that you are not above utter ridiculousness where I’m concerned.”

Peter smiles, one of his rare completely genuine smiles which say that he’s happy with the state of the universe and his place in it. “I would do anything to keep you, little red. But I did in fact make this. It was my grandmother’s recipe. Talia and I used to make it together, every Christmas.”

His expression goes soft and a little wistful when he talks about his sister, and Stiles can’t resist any more. He’s missed Peter, even when he was furious with him, and now he’s here, with pie he made himself, looking at Stiles like he’s everything he wants in the world, and Stiles can’t not kiss him. He just can’t.

It’s not an amazing kiss, they’re both aware of Derek still in the doorway and Stiles’ dad in the kitchen, but it’s still enough to make Stiles’ heart skip a beat, make the grin that spreads across his face when they pull apart impossible to resist.

“I missed you,” Peter says, softly enough that only Stiles, and maybe Derek, can have heard. “Don’t push me away like that again, Stiles. You have no idea the things I nearly did.”

“That’s a disgustingly manipulative thing to say,” Stiles tells him. “But then I already knew you were an asshole. And I can’t say I’d be any better if I were in your position. Just remember that if you try and threaten me into dating you like that again, I will let Allison gut you.”

Peter moves to fast for Stiles to stop him, pushing him up against the wall hard enough that a photo of Stiles learning to ride a bike age 6 falls over on the hall table, and kisses him properly, deep and hard and serious. Stiles’ eyes slip closed as Peter’s tongue pushes into his mouth, but he knows Peter has kept his open, can feel his gaze on him. It’s distracting, right up until Peter pulls back just enough to sink his teeth into Stiles’ lip hard enough that he tastes blood, and then it’s impossible to think about anything at all.

He whimpers into the kiss, pressing close, too relieved to be touching Peter again to do anything more than grip his shoulder hard enough to leave bruises on a human, the pie still clutched in one hand.

He’s totally focused on Peter, the feel of his tongue hot and slick in his mouth, the smell of his cologne, that it takes him a minute to understand what’s happening when Peter abruptly pulls away. Then someone clears their throat and he turns to see his dad glaring at them from the kitchen doorway.

“Nice to see you again, Sherriff,” Peter says, smiling his most fake smile. Peter is usually very good at fake smiles, but the effect of this one is ruined somewhat by the fact that he has a smear of Stiles’ blood on his top lip. “Thank you for inviting us.”

“Please don’t lump me in with you, Peter,” Derek says, finally pushing past them to shake hands with Stiles’ dad. “Thank you for inviting us Sherriff. I’m sorry about my Uncle.”

“Hey, you can’t help who you’re related to,” Stiles’ dad says, clapping Derek on the shoulder and giving Stiles a significant look. “Stiles, isn’t it about time you put the noodles on to cook?”

“I’ll be there in a minute,” Stiles says, willing his dad to put aside all parental instincts and leave his only son alone with the known murderer. “I just need to talk to Peter for a minute, okay?”

“Talk,” his dad says, glaring at the both of them. “He is underage, and I’m prepared to let that one go because it’s Christmas, but I see you touching him in this house again, I will taze you, understand?”

Peter is an asshole werewolf, but he’s also the only werewolf Stiles has ever met with actual survival instincts, so he just nods, doesn’t even try for a witty come-back, and apparently that’s enough to satisfy Stiles’ dad, who goes back to the kitchen without another word.

Derek reaches for the pie and Stiles passes it over without really looking, all his attention once again focused on Peter.

“You have blood on your lip,” Stiles says, because he’s bad at being smooth.

Peter grins at him. “You still taste delicious.”

“It’s only been a few weeks,” Stiles points out. Long-honed instinct is telling him to duck his head, to hide the fact that he can’t blush on command, but this is Peter and Peter knows the worst parts of him, so he just holds eye-contact. 

He’s learnt that this would count as staring to a normal person, that it would make most people uncomfortable, but Peter strokes his cheekbone, fingers as gentle as they ever are, and says, “It felt like longer.”

“I’m still angry with you.”

“I can live with angry, as long as I’m allowed to talk to you again. Touch you.” Peter steps close again, his hand still cupping Stile’s cheek. “Taste you.”

“Not here, Peter,” Stiles hisses, glancing to the kitchen door to check his dad isn’t watching. “Not anywhere where family is going to walk in on us.”

“You didn’t mind making out in front of Isaac.”

“I didn’t know him back then. I don’t care about strangers, I care about my dad seeing us and freaking out. Or Allison shooting you again.”

“She told you about that?”

“She’s my pack-sister, Peter. She tells me everything.”

“And do you tell her everything? Did you tell her about hunting down that low-life drug dealer together?”

“Yes.”

“About breaking my leg just for the joy of violence?” Peter’s breath is ghosting over Stiles’ lips, warm and ticklish and distracting.

“Yes.”

“When I got on my knees for you for the first time and sucked you so well you screamed when you came? Did you tell her about that?” Stiles locks his knees to keep them from shaking.

“Not in detail.”

“And when I rim you tonight while you come and come until you pass out, so every supernatural being who comes within a ten mile radius of you will smell my scent on you and know you’re my mate, will you tell her about that?”

Stiles bites his lip and tries to will his cock to go soft again. “Probably. Did you just propose?”

Peter laughs. “Mate is not the same as husband. Anyway, you’re too young. I’m not going to propose while you’re still living with your father, he’d try and kill me.”

“If I said yes, he’d probably succeed,” Stiles says. He understands exactly why his dad hates his relationship with Peter, he does, there are even moments when he thinks he may have a point. But at the end of the day, Peter makes him happy, and for a guy like Stiles, that’s a pretty big thing.

They smile at each other, and Stiles hopes this one looks as real as it feels. “I missed you.”

“Every second we were apart felt like being dead again,” Peter tells him. “And I think we’d better go make nice, because if you keep looking at me like I’m going to fuck you over the hall table in front of everyone you care about.”

Stiles winces. “Not as sexy as you think it is, Peter,” he says, (still sexier than it has any right to be, he doesn’t add), and goes back to the kitchen.

His dad’s made mulled apple cider, and Stiles fetches glasses for Peter and Derek and then shoves them and Isaac into the living room. There’s no room in the kitchen for anyone else, and keeping Peter as far away from Chris and his dad seems like the best option.

He’d spent more time making out with Peter in the hall than he realized, and Scott and Melissa will be here any minute, so it’s a last minute rush of dressing the salmon, frying the pierogi and noodles and finding dishes to put everything in.

His babcia would serve the meal in four courses, but they’ve got people popping in and out all evening, so Stiles puts everything out at once, in dishes with candles underneath to keep things warm. 

The Hale pack get summoned back in to carry things, and the last dishes are just going on the table, spaces left for Boyd’s cake and Scott’s tamales, when the doorbell rings.

Scott and Melissa had apparently met Erica and Boyd on the driveway, and there’s a lot of hugs and ‘happy Christmases’ before they manage to get everyone inside. The first few early evening stars are just visible in the night sky, behind them when Stiles opens the door, so he shoves everyone towards the dining room.

The tamales get two minutes in the microwave to heat them through before they’re placed in their usual place of honor in the centre of the dining table. The McCalls make them every year, and for Stiles it wouldn’t be Christmas without them.

Boyd’s cake turns out to be Black Cake, the fumes of run rising from it strong enough that Stiles thinks they’ll all be tipsy by the end of the evening just from being in the same room as it.

There isn’t really room in their small dining room for eleven people, but they manage with folding chairs and stools, everyone crammed into tight enough to that they all keep elbowing each other when they reach for anything. It’s warm and good natured and Stiles can’t help comparing it to the first years after his mom had died. He’d never imaged then, or even when she was still alive, that one day he’d have this many friends and family and people who care about him. That this many people would ever have seen who he really is, never mind accept it.

“What do are you doing tomorrow?” Erica asks Stiles during a lull in the conversation. “Do you cook all this again, or just eat leftovers?”

“Dad always works Christmas day,” Stiles says with a shrug. “And Melissa usually does too. So me and Scott eat leftovers and attempt to cook Mexican food and play call of duty.”

“Come to our pack Christmas,” Peter suggests. “Now I’ve finally convinced Derek at get an actual apartment we’re trying out this whole pretending to be real people thing.”

“Definitely needs some work,” Stiles tells him with a grin. “Not at all convincing.”

Peter shows his teeth in something Stiles really hopes his dad will think is a smile. “Brat. We’re not doing much, but the pups have done what they insist is called decorating and I insist is called vomiting brightly colored tat all over a perfectly nice living room, and I will be cooking.”

“Turkey?” Scott hates turkey. To be honest, Stiles isn’t a fan, but fussing eating draws attention so he’d never let himself develop strong dislikes.

“Beef. It wouldn’t be a proper werewolf Christmas without red meat.” He gives Stiles a wolfish look which the others will probably think is because of the innuendo. Stiles hasn’t yet been able to find the right words to tell Allison about how much Peter gets off on watching him eat meat, because every time he has the conversation in his head Allison ends up asking him about cannibalism.

“I guess we could drop in for a bit,” Stiles says with a shrug. “In the interests of interpack cooperation.”

Scott gives him a baleful look, because Scott is more than smart enough to know that Stiles just agreed to ditch their usual celebrations in favor of letting Peter feed him so much meat he can’t move and then fuck him till he screams, even if he doesn’t know all the details.

“We’ll go in the afternoon,” Stiles suggests. “We can make Mexican-Polish fusion food for lunch and play till we get sick of the game, and then go round to Derek’s and stuff our faces with steak.”

“Forerib, actually,” Peter corrects. “You’d both be very welcome.”

“It would be nice to see you both,” Isaac offers hopefully, which probably means ‘don’t leave me alone with the Hales on Christmas’.

“You might as well go,” Stiles’ dad says, helping himself to more beetroot salad. “I’m sure Derek will keep an eye on you.”

Stiles isn’t sure where this newfound faith his dad has in Derek has come from, but he doesn’t say anything because he knows his dad really means ‘Derek won’t let his creepy uncle bad-touch my underage son’, and chances of Derek actually trying to protect Stiles’ honor are hilariously low.

“I’m sure he will,” Scott says, and there’s laughter in his voice, so Stiles doesn’t feel so bad about ditching him in exchange for sex. Sex which he apparently isn’t doing a very good job of not thinking about, given the hungry way Peter is staring at him.

Stiles gestures a stand down, and Peter grins, but he looks less like he’s about to eat Stiles whole, so that’s got to be a good thing.

There’s another knock on the door as Stiles is cutting the cakes, and Scott goes to answer it. He comes back with Lydia and Jackson in tow, both pink faced from the cold.  
Despite protests from everyone else, Chris, Melissa and Stiles’ dad take their deserts into the living room, leaving free chairs for the new comers.

Stiles carefully arranges a slice each of Pecan pie, black cake and the honey and poppyseed cake he’d found a recipe for online (and feels bad for liking more than his mom’s) on a single plate. He spoons dried fruit compote over the whole lot, on the basis that it’s amazing and he likes trying new food combinations, and lets Erica pour some wine into his empty glass.

Jackson stares suspiciously at the food like he thinks it might be poisoned until Lydia gets sick of his bullshit and hands him a loaded plate. Jackson scowls at it before he grudgingly eats a pierogi, his brow creasing as he chews.

“Did you make these, Stilinski?” he ask.

“Allison and dad helped,” Stiles says.

He’s half expecting an insult, because Jackson around other people is a lot less nice than Jackson when it’s just the two of them, but Jackson just says, “It’s good,” and goes back to eating.

Romero and Parrish drop in for a bit, along with Stephens, who’s become a regular Christmas eve fixture in the Stilinski household because he hates his wife but refuses to pay for a divorce. Stiles doesn’t like the man, but he doesn’t cause any trouble, so he ignore him. The two younger officers stick their heads around the dining room door to say hello, but they spend the evening in the living room with Chris and Stiles’ dad, so Stiles doesn’t feel so bad that they’ve kinda split the evening up into the human party and the pack one. The cop party and the civilian one is a much better division, and it’s not like Chris and Melissa don’t know how to get along with cops. They both have to spend a lot of time with them for work, after all.

Erica suggests a game of Never Have I Ever, and despite the fact that they’ve got nothing but a bottle of white wine and some non-alcoholic mulled cider to drink, people agree provided they can play and eat at the same time.

It starts off silly, (Allison’s suggestions of ‘I’ve never gotten all hairy at the full moon”) and within three rounds has become about trying to discovered as many of one another’s most embarrassing kinks.

Stiles drinks for ‘I’ve never wanted to fuck someone when they’re wolfed out’, and winks at Peter’s gob smacked expression. Allison makes Scott nearly fall out of his chair in shock when the drinks for ‘I’ve never fantasized about bondage’, and then nearly gets shoved out her own chair when Erica laughingly slaps her on the back hard enough to make her wince.

It’s silly and fun and everyone’s careful not to ask anything that might cut too close. Stiles is full and warm and happy in a way he keeps being surprised by. He honestly hadn’t known, until a few months ago, that he was capable of this kind of contentment. He’d been happy, for brief periods. Gaming with Scott. Watching movies with his dad. Being hugged by Melissa. But it had been transient, fleeting, and he’d been resigned to that being what happiness meant for him. He hadn’t minded. The deadness inside had seemed like a better option than feeling everything so intently it hurt, the way his mom had.

But it turns out there was this incredible happiness inside him all the time, this emotion that burns like one of Lydia’s Molotovs, leaves him confused and breathless and smiling so wide his face hurts.

He stands to get more cider, and lets Peter pull him down onto his lap, leans back against a firm chest and breathes in expensive cologne and closes his eyes to better feel the moment.

“Your turn, darling,” Peter says, voice soft against Stiles’ ear.

Stiles opens his eyes, looks round at his pack, and Derek’s pack. At the people he’d kill for, and who’d kill for him in turn. The people he would fight the whole world to protect. He raises his glass, downs the contents and then sets it empty on the table so everyone can see he’s not about to drink.

“Never have I ever… been happier than I am right now.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are love x


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